Death Note: Another Note
by CitrusLove
Summary: This time, the trick's on you. pyschological/drama.


_**A/N:** Hey... Just thought I'd drop by. This is an attempt to escape the fact that I should REALLY be updating WWYNA?, but I've been sick and busy and all that shizdig so... yeah. D:_

_I'm both in awe and frustrated at Death Note: Another Note, the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases novel. So if you haven't read it, this probably won't make much sense. Actually, it MIGHT, but it will be narrated in *gasp* first person (which is a gamble in itself) by a slightly, (okay, not slightly) psychologically imbalanced individual. I'm going to try my best to make sure all dates and times are correct, and its entirely up to you fellaz if you want this to continue or not. A more in-depth analysis of LABB? Your choice._

_Hopefully, someone will find this piece of fiction vaguely interesting, so let me know if you do! R&R! You know the drill._

_**Disclaimer:** DN:AN is not mine, so don't throw down ninja-piglets from helicopters from above my house and drag me to prison... But I'm sure you'll find some other way O_O_

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Case Journal: Beyond Birthday

August 14th, 2002

The LA sun is scorching, melting the rooftops of the wealthy. Even though it is August's autumn, the sun's rays continuously penetrate the green leaves until they are scarlet, welted, crinkled. Their flowery veins crunch under the feet of an individual passing through brainwashed crowds.

Its early morning, a little after 8.00am, and the fresh faced sun smiles at me through hazy smoke arising from the ghastly city, its metal tubes curving up buildings and guzzling its pornography into the coagulating atmosphere.

It is nearly time for me to grasp my racket tightly, and wait for the spinning ball.

-

Breakfast is light, only a raspberry chocolate muffin from the bakery. I ask the woman behind the counter what the time is. Staring at the bulge in one pocket of my jeans, she tells me it's 9.00am. Ah, I say, thank you very much, and as she hands me my change, I wonder if she'd return the question. 67 years. Quite a long time.

I hasten down the boulevard, tongue darting out the scoop up escaping crumbs every so often. 221 Insist Street was drawing near, and, swerving around a pram, I ignored the posters stuck on the sides of telephone poles.

**IF YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THE WARA NINGYO KILLER PLEASE CONTACT POLICE.**

The house itself was large, creamy white pillars barring the corruption that still lingered in its unattractive, plain walls. Modern meant boring, and that was on all levels situated inside the structure. Leaving the wide gaping yard, I continue.

Stepping inside casually, ducking underneath the police tape still strung across the entrance, I make my way to the kitchen. Removing aforementioned bulge, I slip it into the still humming refrigerator and shuffle out. The bedroom's left, and I pass the staircase, taking note of how many steps I take and any faults in architecture. I don't need to, obviously, but training runs steep into the deepest recesses of one's soul.

The bedroom's spotless, not a speck of dust clinging to its surface. Deliberately walking around the bed, I hear a woman's voice, clear as day, ringing from outside. Foolish. And a woman, my sweet? That will only add to the brilliance of the show. A woman, yes, a _woman_.

"L, I've reached the scene."

Well, thank-you. Informative, yet to the point.

A murmur from the other end of, presumably, her digital communicative device.

"What should I do?"

Pause.

"Outside. I'm headed toward the scene of the crime but not have yet entered the yard." That _is_ quite something. The woman hadn't even yet reached the front door, and I could hear her, clearly. You can certainly count on Los Angeles traffic to mute itself conveniently.

The face of myself was simply staring out the window, slightly dreamy, when the door opened. The way it creaked, cautiously, was enough to wake me up. I got on my knees and slipped underneath the bed's labyrinth, as silent as a cat, and got myself comfortable.

"But, L..." The voice was much louder now, a well-calculated guess that the agent was inside the room, lingering just beyond the doorway.

Another pause. "According to the data..." Her slightly gruff female voice dimmed out, because it was all factual ramblings that did not matter in the great scheme of things. Though, it was nice to know exactly how the Enemy contemplated hitting the ball into the court. Karma, I supposed. Heheh.

And the way she went on, "So there's no point in my being here," like a student trying to smart-talk the teacher, that was rather entertaining. The Enemy never liked others being disobedient around him. And her feministic-back chatter was at the very least, refreshing. But she didn't know.

He is _always _right, and you are _always _wrong.

I had a feeling, that somewhere, somehow, that would mean more than it meant right now, in my head. Twisting my scalp on the carpet, I turned to the book shelves, silently counting the volumes of Akazukin Chacha again. Just to check. You can never stop counting.

And it was so very... _exciting_. The spotlight had found me at last, and I couldn't help but shiver slightly, the dazzling prospect of fame intoxicating. This was a brand of fame unique, _mine_, forever. I did not have to sacrifice my intelligence, sell my body as a plastic glittering corpse... Become a generic, bible-bound little boy for the old men to snatch away. I was me. I am me. And the bloody carcasses that mask my identity would stamp me forever into the cryptic dimensions of L's mind, his hard-drive that connected to the rest of him.

Forever.

The woman's shoes came into periphery, and I blinked at them several times. _She's going to check under the bed soon. _I ran my fingers gently under my eyelids. The eyeliner, thick and smudged like dirty drain water, slipped across my fingers tips. My body motionless, I listened to her blabber onward about questions and mistakes. The conversation stopped for a while, but did not end, there was no telltale clicking shut sounds.

She started checking, because the Enemy had told her to. Exactly as foreseen, forethought, fordone.

It was ironic that the Enemy would begin a discussion about abnormalities, I thought. Contradictory, but a necessary conversation. Something we shared in common. That thought in itself made me feel nauseous and light-headed at the same time. I practised a few silent calming techniques, keeping my breathing soft, so it was indecipherable above the hum-hum of the fridge.

I knew how to make myself invisible, for sure.

The Enemy's eyes shifted around the room some more, shadows stepping across that virgin white canvas of the carpet, and a lazy smile drifted across my face as I waited. A small murmur sounded,

"You are beneath me, you can never beat me—that's what the messages are saying. Which means... he's not trying to make everything go right and avoid getting caught, he's after something more than his goals... or making fun of us is his primary goal? Who is 'us'? The police? The LAPD? Society? The U.S.A? The world? No... the scale's too small... This is more personal. So this message...or something like a message... There must be one somewhere in this room... or, wait..."

I blink. What on _earth..?_ _'How could anyone be so stupid?,' _I hear the words ring across my thoughts like jingle bells, teasingly. What a royally illogical person. She had practically answered the question herself: this was an _investigation_, _detectives_ solve investigations, and this one in particular was excruciatingly elaborate, and the crossword...! For goodness sake, even a _high-schooler _could've worked out L was a key candidate for this 'felon's' attention!

Suddenly, my anger diminished, and a secretive smile replaced the annoyed grimace; this was to be _much_ easier than originally planned. Clearly, it would only be a matter of time, not weeks, not months, not years... until Beyond Birthday dragged L kicking and screaming off his perpetual throne, and shoved him off into the depths of confusion, running around in circles like a lobotomized animal, eyes always staring.

Like an _idiot._

"I guess I should check the other rooms... seems sort of pointless. But if he wiped all the fingerprints in the house..."

And she turned to leave. _No!_ Eyes blazing, I resisted the urge to shout out "OY!" and grab the agent's attention. She must've been an absolute failure at hide and seek, honestly.

The woman paused at the doorway, then turned. I considered, for a mere moment, that perhaps my eyes weren't the only power I had, but wished the arrogance away. For now. Dark denim knees slid down, and my cue flashed before me. My metaphorical racket reached forward as I reached out, sliding with ease into a familiar persona, a skin that was not mine to wear, but felt glorious, just for a moment, to press my cheek to.

She jumped back, muscles tensing, a silent squeak breaking out of her lips. Multiple trains of thought crisscrossed as I idly half-watched the woman's attempt to pull out a gun, harsh voice quivering, strong, through that comfortable quiet. It _was_ LA, after all.

"What... no, who are you?!" Interesting question, I'd recommend asking your employer.

I stared openly, my stomach bending as I hunched. _That ought to bring her back to reality._ I felt the sizzling behind my pupils as they penetrated her, her snow-white face, patriot-dark blue eyes.

_**Misora Naomi**_

"Nice to meet you," _monotone, bored, simple, bold._

My head inclined lower.

"Please call me Ryuzaki."

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_O_O_


End file.
